Speed Date on the Fifth Avenue Bus

Jan. 8, 2016

Dear Diary:

Three years ago I gave up my Village apartment and moved to a small town in Massachusetts. Even so, if someone asks me where I’m from I say New York.

A few days before Thanksgiving, I come back and go to the Met. Afterward I take a bus down Fifth, a No. 4 headed for Pennsylvania Station. The bus is jammed, though silent, as I push my way to the back. A woman takes a child on her lap, a kindness to my white beard, and I sit down.

A woman gets on and sits across from me. She’s around 40, has warm skin, and wears a wool hat and a large coat with bold stripes like a zebra. My New York genes kick in. I can talk to anyone.

Me: “Nice coat.”

She: “Thanks” (a smile). “Do you know how far down it goes before it turns?”

Me: “It’s headed for Penn Station. Somewhere around 34th Street.”

She: “Thank you. I get Penn Station and Grand Central mixed up. I shouldn’t but I do.”

Me: “You don’t look like a tourist.”

The silence is broken and now the bus is listening. This woman and I smile, and I feel the bus does the same as it passes 42nd Street, and then past colorful Christmas windows, one full of dancing gingerbreads.

The bus stops. She gets up. I’m surprised.

Me: “Your stop? I thought we were going to Penn Station.”

I lift an open palm in protest as the doors open. She smiles, squeezes my fingers goodbye and steps down into the dark. I call after her.